


Gramercy

by danwriteskink



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Cunnilingus, F/M, Kinky Lunchbreak, Orgasm Delay, Secret Rendezvous, Service Top Harold, sex as stress relief
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-15
Updated: 2020-12-15
Packaged: 2021-03-10 22:49:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,324
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28084965
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/danwriteskink/pseuds/danwriteskink
Summary: They don't meet often, but when they do, it's exactly the right thing.
Relationships: Harold Finch/Zoe Morgan
Comments: 4
Kudos: 15
Collections: POI Advent 2020





	Gramercy

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by this meme_of_interest prompt: _There are very, very few people—especially men—who Zoe will let have control in bed. Harold Finch is one of them._
> 
> Gramercy: _From Middle English gramerci, from Old French grant merci (“great thanks”)._
> 
> Thank you to branwyn for the beta.

They don't meet often, but when they do, it's exactly the right thing. Zoe doesn't know how Harold does it. Even knowing the extent to which the man eavesdrops – and why bother worrying about that, since there's no way to stop him – Zoe is always surprised to receive an invitation at exactly the time when her tension headache is threatening to intrude on her ability to concentrate. The invitation is formal: always in an envelope, crisp and pristine, in heavy linen-pressed paper with corners creased sharp enough to kill.

This morning, it's on her breakfast plate at the Four Seasons. Zoe nods at the waiter to bring coffee, and picks it up. Harold's handwriting, dense, precise but still elegant, says, "Ms. Zoe Morgan" on the front. The ink is peacock blue. It's an absurd and delightful indulgence of Harold's, and it starts the process of anticipation nicely.

Inside, there's a card with a time and a room number. Gramercy Park, a favourite hotel for Harold, who does love his old world glamour. Zoe thinks of the heavy velvet drapes, the solid antique furnishings, and feels a prickle of desire along her shoulders.

There's an understanding between them that she will attend. It's part of the arrangement for this particular situation. Harold decides what she needs, and Harold delivers it. It's the ceding of control that allows Zoe to let go of the tension inside her, and, as Harold explained at their first encounter, that doesn't work unless you actually let go.

Only with Harold. Only ever with Harold, and only because she knows he gets off on it as much as she does. Well, that, and the fact that she's seen the way John looks at him. John trusts Harold with his life, and John does not trust easily. It worked as well as a good reference.

She doesn't stop at reception. The carpet is soft beneath her feet, and her heels sink deep into the plush. It's a pleasant reprieve and another reminder of how long she's been on her feet this week, and how they're quietly aching in protest. She could ignore it and push on if she had to, but she doesn't have to. Harold has taken care of that.

He sees her coming, in his own mysterious way, and opens the door for her.

"Ms Morgan," he says, and kisses her cheek. "It's lovely to see you. Your coat, please."

Zoe lets it slide from her shoulders, and into his hands. He hangs it carefully on the back of a chair, then turns to look at her, smiling.

"I'm very glad we could both make time for this."

Zoe laughs. "I suppose I'm lucky you have such a keen understanding of my schedule, to know we could both make time for this. I'm always surprised you can make any sense out of it."

Harold steps forward and gathers her two hands in his, kisses the knuckles and smiles. "I like to think I've learned your personal shorthand by now, Zoe." Then he leads her to the bed.

It's vast, and covered in a dark red velvet throw. Zoe sits on the edge of the thing. Harold kisses her hand one more time, and then begins to undress her. Earrings first, removed with careful precise hands and placed on the side table. The same with all her jewellery and her watch.

Zoe likes the feel of his fingertips on her skin, warm and gentle, but definite in their movements. He slides down one strap of her dress, and that's the first time he kisses her, at the point where her neck becomes her shoulder. It makes Zoe breathe in, which makes her aware of her body moving against her clothes, which makes her want to be free of them. Harold, though, likes to take his time: kissing down to her collarbone, letting his lips linger.

When she's starting to breathe more rapidly, he smooths his hand over her hair, kisses the crown of her head, and goes to work on the other strap, her other shoulder.

She's still fully dressed and it's already getting hard to sit still. Harold's hand slides over her belly and up to cup one breast. Zoe lets out a soft noise – she hates to call it a whimper, but that's what it is, a little desperate sound of want that escapes her lips.

"Hush," says Harold, and puts his lips on hers.

He'll eat her out later. That's what this kiss is promising, with his tongue in her mouth, moving and teasing, with his hands holding her in place so he can reach the exact place he wants to be in. Zoe sighs and lets him do what he wants, which is to tilt her head back and work his lips over her throat. 

She feels the zipper at the back of her dress let go, and the fabric falls away into her lap. Harold helps her stand and step out of it, his cheek against hers. He is still completely dressed, hasn't even removed his jacket yet, but she can feel the warmth of his body through the layers of wool, cotton and silk. He's tormenting himself with this slow unravelling, as much as he is tormenting her. It's why he's the only person Zoe will allow to do this: the fact that he's not doing this out of a need to belittle her. It has everything to do with delaying their pleasure. Harold desperately wants to drive her wild, and holding back like this provides a delicious frisson. Something he can only find with her.

It's beautifully mutual.

Underwear next, and even in this velvet box of a room, Zoe feels the movement of air against her bare breasts, feels her nipples contract and a tightness in her belly in response to that arousal. Harold seems content with his hands at her waist, thumbs gently stroking the skin there. He places one kiss at the top of her cleavage. Zoe feels the fabric of his lapels brush a nipple, and her knees nearly fold with it. Her hands reach for his arms, clench the sleeves of the jacket until her fingers go numb. She wants his mouth on her breasts now. When he steps back, she exhales in frustration and glares at him.

"All right," Harold says with laughter in his voice. "Perhaps it's time we moved along a little."

He helps her slide backwards onto the bed, piles pillows behind her so she's comfortable and propped up enough to watch. The velvet is satin-lined, slipping and rustling as Harold arranges her, fussy as a butler with a dinner service, though a butler would not be dropping kisses whenever his lips passes close to a vulnerable area. Zoe's nipples are soon slick, and they hurt, from their own tightness, from the pressure of Harold's mouth whenever it closes around one. Harold knows exactly how hard to go – just a little past what Zoe thinks she prefers, just enough to make her wild. Zoe always forgets how well he knows her, and that he can do the things she can't do to herself. The things he makes her feel, nobody else can. Nobody else is permitted to try.

As he peels away her hose, he lavishes attention on her thighs, kisses the smooth curve of her knee, cups the firm muscle of her calf, strokes the fine bones of her feet. Zoe has very little time for self-doubt, and rarely worries about her own attractiveness, but there's something very satisfying about the way that Harold touches her, while he's spreading and bending her legs. It's the reverence of an art curator, the absolute adoration and respect for magnificence that you would see in someone handling a delicate Chinese vase.

When she's spread wide and lewd, he steps back and finally, finally takes of his jacket. Zoe leans her head against the pile of cushions and watches Harold undress. He does it with the calm practicality of an artisan, dropping cufflinks next to her watch, rolling his sleeves up and over his elbows. He loosens then removes his tie, undoes the top two buttons of his shirt. The last thing he does is to remove his glasses. Zoe knows how much he hates it when they fog up. He smiles at her, his eyes larger and younger somehow without those dark frames.

When he fetches a cushion from the blue velvet sofa, Zoe laughs in frustration. Harold Finch intends to spend a long time on his knees between her legs. And he has the skill to make her suffer while he does that.

She feels kisses to the inside of her thighs. Kisses above her pubis, then through the narrow strip of hair she maintains. She can only see the top of his head now, the furrow of his brow and occasionally the blue of his eyes as he glances up to see how he has affected her. His touch is gentle as he parts her and spreads her. Zoe sighs as he uses two fingers to hold her open. He's very good at this. Someone taught him well. Zoe sends a private, silent thanks to the woman who taught Harold Finch how to read a woman, how to know when she's… ah.

Zoe loses track of time after an hour. Harold works her up and down, stops, resets, repeats. Sometimes he takes her whole clit in his mouth and pulls gently with suction until she honestly thinks she's going to blow a blood vessel. He has fingers inside her and they press upwards with surety while he works her and works her. Zoe wouldn't be surprised to find herself an inch above the bed, floating and quivering on the edge of pleasure.

She'd give up in frustration, except that now and then she catches a glimpse of his expression. He's pink with desire and exertion, and his eyes watch her avidly. More to the point, he lets her see him like this, all unravelled with lust, his lips shiny from her cunt, his mouth open and breathing hard. Nobody gets to see Harold Finch like this except her. He lets her see how excited he is, how much he loves that he can make her feel this way.

The whole process is exhausting and wonderful. When he finally lets her come, the orgasm rolls in like thunder after oppressive heat, in a wonderful burst of release and pleasure. By the time her vision has cleared and her heart rate has settled, Zoe sees Harold rocked back on his heels, watching her. He watched all of it, from the break of pleasure, through the throes of it when she felt she was leaving her body, till she returned to this calm, languorous state of being that is so difficult for people like her to achieve.

He reaches for one of the towels he has ready, wipes his mouth clean, dries his hands, then uses another for Zoe, making her comfortable, drying the sweat that has pooled all over her. Then he lies down next to her, his movements careful so as not to jolt his neck, puts one arm across her belly and holds her.

Zoe watches him through half-closed eyes. The aftershocks are settling now, and she could almost, almost let herself sleep. Beside her, Harold is equally sated. This delights Zoe, knowing that pleasuring her gets him off. She leans over and kisses him, a chaste kiss on his damp forehead.

"Thank you," she says. "That was wonderful as always."

Harold's smile is gentle and fond. "You are very welcome." He sighs, and reaches for her watch to check the time, then has to reach for his glasses to be able to read it. "Oh," he says. "I'm afraid we have lingered. And I believe you have a gala to attend tonight."

Zoe stretches against her nest of pillows. "I do," she says. "I have some bad news to deliver to a baby-faced congressman who did something very stupid last week."

Harold sits up slowly, and creakily gets to his feet so he can offer her his hand. Zoe appreciates his gallantry, but it's time for her to move quickly. She stands, then picks up her shoes. No need to scramble for her things; Harold has placed each item down carefully. Getting dressed is quick and easy.

For his part, Harold unrolls his sleeves and puts himself in order, then slips in his earpiece. "Mr Reese? How is it proceeding?"

Zoe checks the time and does some quick calculating. Back to her place to get ready, then onto the gala in time to remind a man that there are certain codes of behaviour and breaking them has consequences. She feels calm and centred, ready to correct someone's mistake and to make it pay for the wronged party. And for her, of course.

Harold stands when she comes out of the bathroom. "Thank you, Ms Morgan."

Zoe loves the way he returns to formality, after spending the afternoon between her legs. She kisses him on the cheek this time. "Thank you, Harold."

Harold turns aside slightly, one finger to his ear, listening to John's voice. "Surely there's a less violent way to do that," he tells John. He sounds a little frustrated himself. Zoe understands. John is lovely but he can be infuriating sometimes.

She leans in, puts her mouth to Harold's other ear. "Let me know if you need me to return the favour," she says.

Harold blinks, and Zoe watches him process the idea. She hopes he's picturing her lavishing attention on him in the same way. His eyes flick downward suddenly. "Yes, Mr Reese, of course I'm still here!" he says. He sounds irritated, but Zoe knows that wicked glint in his eyes.

She smiles and turns to walk for the elevator. She knows she is going to have a wonderful night.


End file.
